Immunity is Gone
by NickL4Dolas
Summary: Nick and Ellis have split from Rochelle and Coach, so they can meet up later in a safe room. The two bond a little, but then it goes when Nick regrets being so friendly. Afterwards, he discovers that he is becoming Infected, and they are running out of time...
1. Absence of Friendship

(Contains Nellis -_-; for those people who support it. I personally am OK with Ellis x Nick, but since loads of people do really like it, I want to satisfy them :p Also contains hints of Nick x Rochelle at the end!)

[Seeing as I am only alright with Nellis, it will be light: THIS MEANS FLUFF. JUST FLUFF. DON'T EXPECT ANYTHING OTHER THAN FRIENDSHIP OR HUGGING! ... This means NO kissing, and NEVER expect a lemon from me!]

{The origins of Nick's scratches are my own concoction. Also, the symptoms of becoming an Infected are mine.}

.:I do not own Left 4 Dead 2! Or Valve! Or any characters mentioned!:.

Chapter 1: Absence of friendship

The rain was pattering off Ellis' hat, his Bull-Shifters shirt soaked against his skin. The torrential downpour still didn't cease as they slogged across Fairfield, the quarantined city empty and bleak.

"No zombies this early in the mornin'," Ellis observed, the drawl in his voice tight with concern.

"Mm," Nick said shortly. His eyes were fixed ahead, his gun ready to blast those shitty demons into oblivion.

"It's a pity we split with Ro and Coach," Ellis continued. "We need Ro's steadiness to stop us killin' each other."

Nick replied with a scowl, eyes flicking to Ellis' face, and was slightly startled to see soft eyes staring back. Nick quickly averted his gaze, muttering curses under his breath.

Ellis suddenly gave a yell as a Smoker tongue snared his ankle. He swore as his gun fell from his scrabbling hands.

"Nick, ya son of a bitch, help me!" he shouted, being swiftly dragged down the road. Nick was alert, and saw the Smoker standing on a roof. His gun was aimed, the trigger was pulled. The Smoker gave a hacking scream as it exploded into smoke, the haze drifting over the corpse.

"Nick ... thanks," Ellis panted, unwrapping the slimy tongue and gratefully accepting the proffered hand.

"Don't mention it," came the gruff reply. Taciturn as he was, Nick had still given a brief reply. Usually he would lap up the glory, but now ... now, he was being modest. Ellis was surprised.

He grabbed his gun, straightened his cap, and carried on walking. Nick caught up, a surly frown on his face; although he kept his eyes firmly ahead, Ellis was beginning to find Nick's continuous furtive glances his way irritating. He swung round at the seventh time.

"Can ya stop lookin' at me?" he growled. Nick looked alarmed, whether it was because of the anger in Ellis' voice or that he had been caught Ellis couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry," Nick replied, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "Would his highness also like me to wear blinkers, like a horse?"

Ellis gave an exasperated groan. Nick was always quick with a sharp reply, and it got on the Savannah kid's nerves.

After a long, silent interval, as the two tramped down the muddy, slippery road, Nick spoke again.

"Sorry," he muttered. Ellis was really surprised now; usually, Nick left the apologising to those he thought had wronged him. "Hey, Ellis, have you ever what my nickname 'hick' sounds li- Never mind," Nick said hurriedly, averting his eyes as Ellis looked questioningly at him. Ellis was now officially confused. First, Nick had been modest. Then, he had apologised before Ellis. And now he was uncomfortable! What was wrong with the brash, pessimistic, arrogant conman?

"Nick?" Ellis asked. He watched the man's reaction: alarmed eyes, firmly not looking at Ellis.

"What?" came the reply, hesitant and tight.

"What's up?" Ellis said sternly.

"Nothing," came the immediate reply. It was too quick, too hasty to be true. Ellis glared at the back of Nick's head. He could see the rain on the conman's neck.

"Hick ... does it rhyme?" Ellis asked, deciding to turn the boring moment into a game. Nick rolled his eyes, seemingly back to normal.

"I did say nothing, nosy," he snapped. "So forget it!"

"Why say it in th' firs' place then?" Ellis demanded.

"I said forget it!"

"But why in th' firs' place?"

"FORGET IT!" Nick shouted, striding away from the stunned Ellis, leaving him standing alone in the rain.

"All right!" Nick cried, his scowl breaking into a broad grin. He vaulted through the broken window of a shop, and walked over to the counter. He fiddled around a bit, before the till popped open. Money, banknotes, were inside. Nick took a few hundred notes and stashed them in his backpack.

"Good to know I've not lost my touch," he acknowledged, speaking more to himself than to Ellis.

The conman's eyes roved round the room, past everything destroyed. He realised nothing else was valuable. He looked at Ellis.

"Let's go," he said shortly. He pushed Ellis out of the way, hands shoving in a brusque manner.

Ellis rolled his eyes, and reluctantly followed the conman into the unrelenting, torrential rain. He firmly kept his eyes fixed on Nick's back, on his white suit: it was hard to see in such rain, and the stark - albeit grimy - white was clearer than the patch of brown that was the back of Nick's head.

Nick walked at a quick pace, and when they were eventually resting under an overhang free from the elements, he was panting slightly. He lifted his head, looking at Ellis. His eyes widened in shock and horror.

"Ellis-"

A Hunter flew through the air with a scream, batting Ellis aside and landing on Nick. Sharp claws tore at the conman's midriff, the white suit bloodied, the blue shirt almost shredded.

Nick's hands scrabbled for something, anything; it was no use, his gun had skidded out into the rain. Complete numbness took over the pain and the blood ... it would be so easy to just slip away ... into the darkness ...

"Sweatshirt wearin' little wuss!" came a roar, a voice with a drawl ... Ellis. The Hunter was riddled with gunshots and bullets; with an angry cry, it jumped off Nick and scuttled away.

"Nick-" Ellis said, helping the conman up. He had the briefest of moments to register the weak smile on Nick's face, before the man collapsed. Ellis hurriedly stayed upright against the unconscious weight, Nick's head lolling over his shoulder, Ellis supporting the conman with his arms. He decided to say one thing.

"Shit."

A small fire was burning, illuminating the warehouse in an eerie amber glow. The corners of the large metal building and the very top of the corrugated ceiling were in shadow.

Ellis had chosen to rest here, because the windows the windows were boarded up with plates of metal. The - had also dragged the large sliding door closed, barricading it with a long, thick beam of wood.

As he warmed his cold hands near the flames, Ellis couldn't help examining the conman's face. Nick's eyes were still closed, corners of his mouth still in a slight smile; his jaw was dotted with days of unshaven stubble; his brown hair was out of the slick (expensive?) hairdo it had originally been in, because now it had endured wind and rain; the white suit was splattered with drying spots of blood. Ellis had found it grisly, but he had bandaged the conman's wounds.

Grisly ... and embarrassing, since he knew Nick would hate him for making him feel weak.

"Ah, shit, Nick. I'm not sorry if ya hate me now," Ellis said, his voice echoing softly.

Talk of the devil, Ellis thought wryly. Nick was stirring, muttering incoherently.

"I'm gonna ... soup you up ... so you bleed from your fingertips ... you stupid zombie ..."

His eyelids flickered, but didn't open properly. All Ellis could see was a creepy slit of white, Nick's green irises nor his pupil showing. He looked like an Infected.

There was one thing Ellis intended to ask the conman: where had he gotten the scratches on his chest? Ellis hadn't been prying; since Nick always wore his '$10,000' blue shirt slightly open at the neck, they had always been slightly visible. Ellis mused over the scratches thoughtfully. Had Nick possibly been attacked by a Witch or a Hunter before he had joined the other three? Or was it just a souvenir from his exploits with an ex-wife or someone? Ellis shuddered, hoping that it wasn't the latter. Otherwise he would be slightly disgusted.

Nick stirred. This time his eyes opened, the moss-green irises visible, the black pupils enlarged from the lack of light. He blinked a few times at the sudden brightness of the flames, his pupils contracting as they adjusted to the bright, dancing fire. He noticed Ellis.

"Uh ... how long have I been out?" he asked.

"Hmm ... 'bout two hours. Give 'r take a coupla minutes," came the reply.

"Wow," Nick remarked. He gave a chuckle, the sound strained.

"Oh, Nick. I wanted to ask ya: what's with th' scratches on ya chest?" Ellis asked bluntly.

"What- the hell, Ellis?" Nick spluttered. "One, _you_ _looked_. Two, you asked?"

"Actually, ya blue shirt has always been unbuttoned, so they're not exactly hidden. And I was curious, 'kay?" Ellis admitted. Nick remained silent. Then he spoke, albeit hesitantly.

"Well," he said curtly, as if he was merely a teacher addressing a student, "I got them when ..."

Ellis mentally crossed his fingers, ready to exhale with disgust if it was the answer he dreaded.

"When?" he encouraged.

"When ... I met a Witch. For the first time. When I was with you guys - and we first found a Witch - I feigned shock at her. But I encountered one before.

"I was on my own. I had no gun, since I couldn't carry a firearm - no, I won't still tell you why. All I had was a nightstick and a baseball bat. I thought she was a girl, a Survivor, crying. Hell, was I wrong! She screamed and leapt at me, almost decapitating me. I managed to whack her to death, but practically got incapacitated. So ... yeah. Sated your curiosity yet?" Nick added, but not rudely.

"Nope," Ellis grinned. "I also wanna know how ya know that brains wash out of white suits. And blood fr'm a wedding dress!"

"Classified information, Overalls. Don't go prying too far into my past, or you'll piss me off," Nick shot back, although a slight smile was forming on his usually stern face. Nick (to Ellis' surprise) was seemingly beginning to relax, his taut attitude loosening as the night grew older. And Ellis found himself enjoying talking to Nick, for he was talking - a bit - about his shady past, and also sharing his opinions on things.

"So, which Special Infected is th' ugliest, in your opinion?" Ellis ventured. Nick stifled a laugh, then answered in his gravelly Boston wiseguy accent.

"Spitters aren't too bad ... look a bit like my ex-wife. Hunters, well, they're creepy. You can't really see their faces too well. Witches cry, and sound like my ex-wife too. So I guess that they ain't too bad. But Smokers, Boomers, Jockeys, Tanks and Chargers are ugly. I'd say Boomers and Chargers are the worst."

"And," Ellis said slyly, just to see Nick's reaction, "if ya had to repopulate the Earth, which would ya go with?" At this Nick choked with laughter.

"Not any of the males, that's for a start, Overalls. If I had to ... Witch. Because, well, they're a hell of a lot better than Spitters!"

Ellis agreed. He looked into the flames, the soft glow lighting his cheekbones. Nick stared at his hand, the multiple rings glinting like sparks. The fire made the green of his eyes flicker various shades of brown. Nick lifted his head.

"Hey, Overalls? Sorry I've been such a ... what's the word?" he said.

"Prat?" Ellis offered, grinning broadly.

"Yeah," Nick mumbled. He looked exhausted. At Ellis' suggestion that they sleep, he flopped down and almost immediately began snoring. Ellis grinned, and kicked out the flames.


	2. Time is running out

Chapter 2: Time is running out

"Ah, shit," Coach growled. Stepping through the muck made him occasionally trip, the oozing substance clingy and sticky. Rochelle was having her fair share of problems: she was already wondering whether Nick had killed Ellis when he had started another Keith rant.

"You think-" she began.

"For the sixth time, Ro, they're fine!" Coach replied sharply. "Stop thinking about them, and concentrate now. Who knows how many zombies or Mudmen we're gonna run into."

Rochelle gave a sigh and brushed a bug off her pink Depeche Mode shirt, her silver hoop earrings jangling with the movement. Her dark boots were covered in sludge. All of a sudden she felt a sudden twinge of worry, as if disaster and impending doom was coming. She gave a groan as she brushed a stray hair from her face.

"What now, Ro?" Coach muttered, but in a softer tone.

"Nothing," she replied, wading deeper into the marshy bog. She could feel his disbelieving eyes on her, but didn't elaborate.

"MUDMAN!" he roared. She heard the ripple of bullets ricocheting off the soggy marsh, the thunk of lead hitting flesh, the angry screams of Mudmen. Spinning round, Rochelle drew the ax from her belt. With a swift swipe, she embedded the red blade in a skull, before dodging a mad Mudman and lopping off its head.

She could hear the rasping of Coach's chainsaw as it cut through a Mudman's ribs. She could feel the stress emanating from him, see the sweat dripping from his brow as he fought the monsters. The way his teeth were gritted together in a fierce grin. The way his eyes were eager to fight and win.

And she thought of Nick and Ellis.

It was early morning, the air chilly. Nick's mood matched the bitter wind as they tramped across a short plain of dew-streaked grass. Ellis had a feeling the conman regretted being so friendly the night before.

"Nick?" he asked, looking at his companion.

"What?" came the growl, Nick not even glancing at Ellis.

"You regret las' night."

"You don't say. Listen, Overalls." Nick stopped and turned to face Ellis. "Don't expect me to do that anytime soon again. And especially don't expect me to be anything other than cold around you. Don't tell Ro, don't tell Coach, don't tell even a zombie what happened or you'll find yourself in front of my gun."

Hitting Nick or apologising didn't seem like good ideas to Ellis right now. Neither did grovelling or telling a Keith story. So Ellis remained silent.

"Now, Overalls, I suggest we kill any zombie we find, and that's it. No talking, no smiling, no communicating. Am I clear?"

Rolling his eyes or being sarcastic didn't seem like good ideas to Ellis right now. Neither did punching Nick or shooting him in the foot. So Ellis remained silent.

"Shit! I pissed the Witch off!" Nick screamed. The said Special Infected was racing towards him, her arms outstretched, claws ready to rend flesh from bone and weave ribbons of skin and blood. Her eyes flashed amber through the thin fringe of grey-blonde hair. Her grey skin looked ill against the sandy colour of her clothes. Her lipless mouth was stretched wide in a scream of pure ... fury? Pain? Anguish? Whatever it was, Nick didn't care. He just wanted this damn Witch dead before it killed him! It got closer and closer, claws forward to eagerly shred him to pieces. Ellis just stood watching. Silent. But observant. Eyes ready to watch Nick die. Eyes filled with an raging emotion. Not fear.

Want.

Nick sat bolt upright. The dream had been so vivid, so realistic. He even glanced about him to check for a Witch.

"Nick, what is it?" Ellis slurred, barely awake. He blinked drowsily, eyelids heavy and drooping. "Ya can't go wakin' me up f'r nothin'."

"Nothing," Nick groaned, running his fingers through his dark brown hair. Ellis gave an indistinguishable murmur of reply as he settled down again. Soon, his soft snores restarted. Nick sat, bathed in his own cold sweat, pondering his dream. But as he mused over the possibilities, a sharp pain racked his head. It felt as if something was eating away at his brain.

The agony continued, making him feel as if he was on fire. As he was curled up in pain, thought after thought flashed through Nick's mind.

I'm becoming Infected. I'm going to die. I will be a shell of what I once was. I'm going to hurt people. I'm going to hurt my friends. I'm going to hurt Ellis. I will be an unfeeling remnant of a soul. A scrap in existence. But at least I'll fit in. Will I have thoughts? Will I have feelings? Will I feel pain, or an emptiness as I did again? They are going to kill me ...

"Ellis!" he cried. The Savannah kid awoke with a jerk, glancing around wildly whilst scrabbling for his gun. "No, it's not Infected. It's me."

"What?" came the accented voice of Ellis, curiosity but trepidation lilting it slightly.

"I ... I ..."

There was a soft clink, and a small fire flared up. Nick could see Ellis scrutinising him.

"I'm becoming Infected," Nick said, his voice cracking.

"... What? Nick, we're immune! After all th' contact-"

"No, look." Nick showed Ellis his wrist and face. The skin was slightly grey, his nails ragged and slightly pointed. Like a Common Infected's.

"Holy shit," Ellis murmured in horror. "Right, we need Ro now."

They quickly packed up; Nick stuffed their equipment into their backpacks, while Ellis grabbed his items and kicked the fire out. The whole time he could hear Nick's ragged breaths. And the whole time he knew time was running out.


	3. Safe Room

Chapter 3: Safe Room

Rochelle and Coach were both waiting in the designated safe room. Behind the door, they were stocking up on the pills and medical packs. Rochelle hefted her ax, before propping it against a wall. She slumped against it, Coach following suit. She exhaled.

"That was one hell of a fight," she panted. He agreed wordlessly, still trying to catch his breath. They sat in a long silence, then jumped as the safe room door crashed open. Rochelle scrambled to get her ax, Coach revving up his chainsaw. But stood in the doorway wasn't a Tank or a Charger. It was Nick and Ellis.

"Guys!" Rochelle cried in delight, but before she could properly greet them, Ellis said something that made the world crumble into a void.

"Nick's turning," he said shortly. Rochelle froze, her smile melting into a horrified expression.

"No, this isn't happening," she trembled. "This isn't happening. Are you sure?"

Glancing at Nick confirmed her fears. His skin was greyish and he was covered in a thin film of sweat. His hair was limp, hands shaking violently. His eyes were sunken; his every breath was rasping. She could see he was trembling all over. He was turning. They hadn't much time left. He hadn't much time left.

Rochelle had never thought she would see Nick, the tough, smarmy, self-centred, cynical, pessimistic, sarcastic conman weak or scared. But now he was both.

He collapsed against a wall, breathing heavily. His eyes were clamped shut, teeth gritted, the cords in his neck standing out as he clenched his fists hard.

"Shit," he choked out, alongside a weak laugh that sounded hollow and utterly faux. "That's what I feel like: shit. Or death warmed up. Yeah, that's it. Death warmed up. Get it? Zombies are dead? But I ... never mind."

His attempt at a joke failed miserably, his voice trailing off. He gave a hacking cough.

"You ain't gonna turn into a Smoker now, are ya? 'Cause that would suck. It would suck more than th' time Keith tried to fly, and he succeeded, but then he got stuck in a tree-" Ellis seemed to realise the resounding growl was coming from Nick. The conman looked alarmed at the sound emitting from his mouth; as shocked as his fellow survivors.

"Help," he said. Then he fell unconscious, the last he saw being the safe room door smashing down from the barrage of attacks from the Common Infected.

When Nick awoke all was foggy. Greenish, smoke coiled around him. A Smoker's corpse told him what the stuff was. But what was strange was that Nick didn't find the smoke acrid, rank or bitter. It was tasteless, odourless. It was simply gas.

Standing, the conman noticed debris fall from his limbs. He brushed the dust off, stepping from Common Infected to floor, avoiding the blood. At the sight of a Boomer, bile dripping from its remains, he felt a sudden compulsion to go over to the vomit. He shook his head.

Next, Nick looked for the survivors.

"Ro? Coach? Overalls?" he called continuously. No reply came. There was a new husk to his voice: it was a sharp sound, hurting his ears. He saw some broken glass and froze.

His face no longer had a greyish hue to it. Now, his skin seemed dead and pale. His green eyes were empty and bottomless. He was a Common Infected.

"No ... No! No! This isn't happening!" he screamed, grabbing his hair and pulling. The raucous sounds from his maw hurt his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut. Infected or not, he would find his friends.

"Ro! Shit, are you and Ellis alright?" Coach exclaimed, burrowing through the thick rubble. After running from the Horde, they had taken refuge in a building. A pipe bomb had caught in Rochelle's pocket, and had started bleeping and flashing. She had thrown it wildly as it neared exploding. She hadn't thrown it far enough.

The bomb had bounced off the wall, landing on a high shelf. Then it had detonated, creating what had been like a landslide of bricks and mortar. Coach had spun too late, but had turned in time to see Rochelle and Ellis buried by the rubble. Now he was trying get them out.

Coach spurred on as he heard Rochelle weakly call from the heavy layers of rock and bricks. He was also more desperate because he didn't hear his fellow Savannah guy speaking. Ellis was silent.

An hour later, he was finally through. Rochelle was fine, if a little shaken and a bit grazed and cut. Ellis had a large gash on his head, and a bruise on his right arm. It looked worryingly twisted.

His eyelids flickered. He sat up, almost head butting Coach. He tried to say something. All that came out was a rasping groan. He tried again.

"Ah think my arm is broken."

"No. It can't be!" Coach checked. "No. Just sprained."

"Well, it hurts a shitload more than sprained!"

Rochelle quickly bandaged some wood, like a splint, onto his wrist, then fashioned a swift sling from a jacket she had scavenged for times like this.

"There," she said, tying it off. "At least it was your left arm, so can still use a ... pistol?"

"Damn! This is such a handicap!" Ellis fumed, waving about his sprained arm. "It's gonna be so hard to reload, use a weapon and even shoot!" His eyes lit up when he saw a machete. "This, I can use ..."

The door crashed open. All three spun round, seeing a single Common in the door.

"DON'T SHOOT!" Rochelle shouted. "It's Nick!"

She had seen his torn blue shirt, and scraps of his white suit jacket. His white trousers were covered in blood and grime, torn at the ankles.

But the rest of him was barely recognisable: his brown hair was still slightly neat, but his green eyes now seemed dead and hollow. His skin was greyish and not alive. He was Infected.

"Guys," he said. His voice was cracked and painful. "I'm sorry ... To lose myself to the Green Flu ... I'm immune, but I ... I noticed the symptoms as soon as I met you guys. I was just turning much slower. I was always going to be Infected ...

"I just didn't tell you because I wanted to savour the moments with company I didn't loathe. I'm sorry, I should have killed myself when I had the chance ..."

"Nick. It's okay." But as Rochelle moved towards him, he swung round and gave a snarl. He immediately looked startled, the other three concerned.

"Don't come near me," he said piteously. "I don't want to kill anyone."

"I don't care," Rochelle said defiantly.

Nick gave her a weak smile, before gesturing at the door.

"We gonna leave now-" He was blasted sideways as, with a mighty roar, a Tank blasted through the wall. It bellowed and smashed a fist into the wall behind Rochelle; his fist would have crushed her had she not ducked. It turned to Coach and Ellis, Rochelle half buried beneath stone and brick. Nick tottered up, coughing blood.

What now?


End file.
